Skyrim Chronicles: Ma'Roken
by Masterless
Summary: The Skyrim world of "Onyx". After Alduin was banished, this ebony Dragonborn still wanders the hostile lands searching. Killing. Shouting. Purging. Defining his presence in both cruelty and grace. But a young Khajiit will forever change how he looks at things; the Ebony Dragon discovers something far more potent than most of his endeavors.
1. Ma'Roken I

There are at least nine still standing strong while two are on the verge of dying. I can only spot four carcasses and thankfully none are Khajiit but that would probably not be the case soon if I don't make my move. Taking a deep breath…

" _Zun Haal Viik_!"

That path of the Thu'um disarms the archers and thankfully the sword wielding Breton who was about to get his shot at one of Ahkari's ally. Bows, blades, even shields fall on the ground and the raiders fumble to retrieve their weapons—the shout caught both the attention of ally and enemies alike and the moment of pause is all I need to gain my grounds to force Shadowmane and myself in between the group of bandits and Ahkari's caravan. Jumping off Shadowmane, I unsheathe Muramasa and take my first kill.

"You are late!" Kharjo admonishes as he slams his shield on his opponent's head.

"You will have to present your forgiving nature, Kharjo," deflecting a sloppy attack, I counter immediately, which results to the bandit falling on the ground, blood quickly staining his leather armor. "Besides, did you not mention that you would convince Ahkari to wait for my arrival?"

Bashing his oncoming assailant, Kharjo quickly retaliates by smashing his mace across the helmet, quickly ending the bandit's life. "It was not something that could have been delayed, Onyx."

"That is not the impression I got when we last spoke. _Fus_!" the mage lost her footing, which of course stops her attempt from throwing a spell. Out of nowhere, Ahkari lunges at the mage for the kill, both daggers on the caster's throat.

"That last we spoke was many nights ago, Onyx. Besides, where in the name of the Alkosh have you been? This one hears that you fulfilled your prophecy, but you disappeared without a word."

Anyone else who would have dared to utter those words would probably not be considered my ally; I don't need anyone delving into the idea of what I have been doing or my whereabouts. Truth to be told, after the battle against Alduin, after experiencing the Nords' idea of the afterlife, I felt a surge of uncertainty. I needed time to think for myself; I decided it was best if I kept myself busy in a less than glorious way; methods that are questionable—ways that even I myself wonder why I went that route for the past few weeks. After all, who in Oblivion deals with their ambiguity by inadvertently becoming the leader of one of Tamriel's most bloodiest groups? I suppose the better question is: how in the name of Boethiah did I become the Night Mother's new Listener?

Deciding that it is best I shove those thoughts aside, I speak. "Busy," my reply is as quick as the act of plunging my blade through the breastplate of the shorter than normal Nord warrior. "Though I did realize that the fourth message from a courier in a matter of a week meant that the situation is dire."

Kharjo's response was a quick 'hmph' before setting aside his mace to grab his bow. Ahkari does the same, stabbing her bloody daggers on the ground before hurling her spells at the remaining raiders who are making an effort to retreat. Following the tactic, I grab my bow and start shooting as well. Ahkari had always made it a point to make sure that no attackers should ever escape with their lives for attempting to ransack her caravan—and as the last man falls from her ice spike, she makes that point once more.

"I will make the safe assumption that you would have survived without me," I say, attempting to lighten the mood. "Though you could have waited for my arrival."

Ahkari takes a moment to stare at me. From the first time I met her, Ahkari always strikes me as a beautiful Khajiit. Those feline eyes of hers, green and ever so exotic when in direct sunlight, though despite those prominent features, I can say that at times I forget that she is beast-kind. Then again, even for an Ohmes-Raht, Ahkari has less Khajiit trademarks. Aside from the wagging brown-gold tail behind her, and the pointy ears, one can almost mistake her for a mer. She truly tries to make up for that with the tattoos intricately etched on her face; designs that may not be my first of choice on a woman, but they do not take away from her visage. And while I have not met many Khajiits in her lunar cycle, I can say that even Kharjo mentions how she is one of a kind; I'm not sure if it is because she is almost flesh and no fur from head to toe; with long acrobatic legs that are all too smooth, a figure that competes with some of the more promiscuous worshippers of Debilla, curved and endowed for anyone not into her race, and a face all too easy for any eyes… perhaps those are the reasons why Kharjo states that she is one of a kind, as if she is not one of _his_ kind. I cannot lie to the idea that those are big factors as to why I found myself sharing beds with her—but for the most part I just felt as if she needed a companion when she travelled. I gave her that for a while, but my _destiny_ to fulfill the prophecy barged through our borrowed time together. While Ahkari understood, I could tell that she was bothered by it. Of course Kharjo's decision to travel with me took one more ally away from her caravan, which added to the 'grief', so to speak. I did not and still _do not_ know how to apologize for that. I suppose being a seldom guard for her travelling caravan is one of the ways I try to exude my sincere apology.

"Most moons I set aside my doubts waiting for you, but this was one of those times I couldn't. So let us stop wasting time and go," Ahkari keeps her eyes on me as she ends the life of a crawling bandit by slicing his throat; I would say what a perfect action to pair up with those words.

"It is great to see you as well, Ahkari."

She takes a moment to glare before walking past me. "As I said, we have wasted enough time, _Jin_."

Using my real name could be taken as a sign of disrespect; for those who get the privilege of knowing it, I have made it clear to _only_ use it when it is necessary or if the situation deems it right. Suppose that is her way of telling me that feelings are reciprocated. Leaving Ahkari to ensure that the bodies lying on the ground are truly corpses, I walk towards Kharjo who is aiding Zaynabi as she helps the injured Khajiit. While I recognize Dro'marash (I can recognize the pierced pointy ears any time even if he is stabbing prone bandits with his sword), the injured Khajiit and the other female Khajiit accompanying this caravan are both strangers to me. Perhaps they are helpers, meant to replace Kharjo after he found a new purpose in helping me.

"Mind telling me what this is all about, Kharjo?"

"A friend of ours sent us a message," he answers after giving the injured Khajiit an encouraging pat on the shoulder.

"I assume it is urgent."

"Indeed."

Tilting my head as I stare at him in a confused manner, I slide my masque off before speaking. "Ahkari is less than jovial and you are lacking your usual obnoxious sense of humor. So what exactly am I missing?"

"Come with us to Bruma and your questions will be answered." The center of Tamriel and the land where Talos was renamed Tiber Septim. The land that was once the proud capital of the Imperials before the White-Gold-Concordat was signed—a land I choose to avoid because of the Aldmeri Dominion's potent influence. Kharjo knows how much I evade Cyrodiil for reasons that are too obvious. "What say you, friend? Will you visit your place of birth for a good cause?" and of course _that_ reason. Kharjo knows of that as well. Place of birth it might be but I choose not to remember those days of my life.

Letting out a sigh, I respond accordingly. "Kharjo, you know how to strain this brotherhood some times."

"Come now, Dragonborn. Bruma is hardly Cyrodiil with how much snow it still has. This one knows how much you love snow."

Well, at least there was some humor in his words. "May your gods be cruel to you, friend. You know how much the cold bothers me."

"You will get over it some day."

Despite the joking tone coming out of him, the weight of what is in Bruma still haunts him. Whatever that may be. Regardless, at least I know that Kharjo is still Kharjo. I suppose that can make the journey bearable.

While my eyes have been paying attention to any movement that could mean danger, I cannot help but pay mind to the remains of what was once an Oblivion Gate. It has been over 200 years and the scars of Mehrunes Dagon's invasion still remains, embedded in the snow, refusing to completely dissolve. True, it is no longer standing ferociously tall like it used to. To the naïve eye, the rock like structure that is half the size of an average man is nothing more than another ruin from a long forgotten race. Though for those who are taught to understand some of the most catastrophic and pivotal moments of Tamriel (Selvus was an adamant history teacher; at least to history that he deemed necessary for me to know), one can imagine that when it stood complete and in its full height, it once harbored a tear in reality; a tear that would allow Dremoras and all the horrific creatures of Oblivion to enter this realm. I can only fathom how many brave men, beast, and mer died to close this gate down.

"It heals quickly," I turn to Kharjo, unsure of what he is talking about, "that horse of yours," of course he'll notice. Then again, from Frost to Shadowmane is a rather extravagant change. Why wouldn't he notice? "I saw it took a few hits as it followed your command of protecting us. Kharjo was afraid that you would be horseless. But it is now in full health." The black horse lets out a sound. "And it is listening; staring at me with those eyes."

"We have some catching up to do," I reply quickly, trying to avoid the conversation. Not exactly an open talk to have. Good thing Kharjo understood and merely nods his head.

"Ahkari will most likely speak to you now. In fact, this one thinks she needs company."

I glance at Ahkari's direction and Kharjo is accurate. Sitting somberly in the caravan, she seems to be staring off into the distance while maintaining the warmth through some ragged sheets kept tightly around her by her tail and hands. Without any more words needed, I urge Shadowmane forward and eventually find myself riding right next to the wagon where Ahkari and the injured Khajiit are. I ride next to them in silence, hoping that she would be first to break the ice.

"You have questions, and I do not blame you," glad she was the first to speak. Did not really have an idea how to go about starting the conversation.

"I will be honest, I would rather know what is going on."

"Bruma is not too far away. Would it be too much to ask to trust that it will be worth it?"

The sincerity in her voice. The gloomy way she asked me. "Dare I refuse you with the way you handle your tone of voice, Ahkari?" She shows a small smile in response to my light hearted comment, but she quickly reverts back to the stern expression, staring forward, pass the bridge that we are about to cross. For a moment my eyes linger towards the other passenger of the wagon. Luckily he hasn't woken up, which means that he is sleeping heavily due to the injuries he received; I can only hope that he is not permanently crippled on his right leg. "For taking a heavy blow, he seems to be doing fine."

Ahkari peels away from the blank staring to glance at her companion before giving me her eyes again. Some of her auburn hair blows into her face and she takes a moment to peel it away before speaking. "Ranar was immediately picked off by our attackers. I would assume they had the mindset of taking out the larger of the group," and as Ahkari said that, I take a moment to glance at Ranar and could definitely see the striking difference of size he has compared to Kharjo and Dro'marash. Larger in height and mass, Ranar definitely makes for a fine guard, and I can only imagine how many have died by the massive blade he carries. "I can only hope that he will be able to use that leg again."

"How is his other injury?" when his breastplate was slipped off, blood was dripping profusely off his brown fur, which brought more than enough fear to believe that he might not have made it. Luckily the weapon did not hit anything vital.

"I believe Zaynabi has done what she can. The rest will be taken care of when we get to Bruma." The blood has stained over the white cloth wrapped around his stomach, which could give anyone enough to worry about in regards to his condition. Though he is still breathing and is steady… luckily we are not travelling that much farther. "But he has a greater chance thanks to your arrival," I latch on to those words immediately, "this one… **_I am_** very grateful. I can forgive you being late."

Once again Ahkari's hair flies to her face and she makes an effort to push them aside. Usually they would be tied back, and it most likely was but the battle must have disheveled them. I take in the sight of Ahkari and I take note of just how much longer her hair is now; definitely pass her shoulders now and its auburn shade compliments her skin color more. If she had fur, Ahkari would have close to golden ones akin to the shade of her skin; as if her Mer-like beauty is not enough to make her stand out, the fact that her usual three companions all have a darker shade of fur definitely gives her more radiance. Noticing me staring at her, Ahkari smiles back, her tail tightening around her body, forcing the blanket to press tighter against her. It would be a nice thought to share her warmth but it seems the moment is not right. Besides, Bruma is not too far away and in the event that things go as smoothly as it has been, we will arrive just as the sun is coming up. Hopefully whatever is bothering this group will finally be taken care of. Not too fond of Kharjo and Ahkari being the moping type.

I expected the Thalmor to be more prominent, but luckily they trusted the Imperials to do their work, thus making their presence scarce and hardly troublesome. Passing through the borders posed no threat and entering the city was even easier. Nords are of course on the priority to be searched and questioned—Redguards are almost non-existent here, while Mer and Khajiit are hardly harassed. Perhaps one day I will ask Kharjo what is his point of view with the majority of his people siding with the Altmers—a day where we are not preoccupied with an operation as important as this. At the moment, I will consider myself fortunate that the stalemate that was _forced_ to happen during the meeting in High Hrothgar still stands, which is why I have some leeway with the Thalmor. Though I would imagine I am treading on thin ice; here is to hoping that this task does not include anything that will involve making noise that will attract some unwanted attention. I am really in the mindset of setting aside some time for some peace… which completely contradicts what I have done the past few weeks.

With Ahkari leading, I remain in the back of the group, watching carefully, attentive of every corner. The moment we descended down the lower levels, Bruma's closed quarters houses starts to wall us in. Not exactly the most comfortable situation to be especially when the reason for being in Bruma in the first place has yet to be revealed. With Kharjo and Dro'marash aiding the large injured Khajiit, any attack will most likely fall in Ahkari's and my hands first and foremost. Zaynabi just from face value is not a fighter. It is a shame she is not quite skilled in the art of combat; her darker grey fur and skinny and lightweight frame would give her some advantage in sneaking. I am almost sure that Ahkari keeps Zaynabi around not for the sake of their friendship but because she is the merchant; and by Oblivion she is a good one. Though being adept in the art of mercantile is hardly something that would help in a very closed quarter combat if it comes. Suffice it to say, we are in a very disadvantageous predicament. As my hand twitches as it rests on Muramasa's hilt, the female Khajiit whose name I have yet to catch stares at me, shaking her head as if admonishing me silently for having a reaction. I give her a moment's glare and was slightly tempted to give her a witty remark, but decide that silence is the better option. Judging from the fact that she is even smaller in frame than Zaynabi _and_ the fact that I did not see her make any attempt to fight back during the raid, I would assume that she is not a fighter either. Would be a shame to have that beautiful snow colored fur of hers covered in blood. If there were an ambush, it would be her I would be worried about the most.

"How is Ranar doing?" Ahkari finally speaks, causing me to turn my attention towards Kharjo and Dro'marash as they awkwardly aid the larger framed Ranar walk.

"He will live," Dro'marash responds after only a few seconds; a hint of strain on his voice is obvious due to half of Ranar's weight is on him.

"But he will need restoration soon," Kharjo adds in.

"It is unfortunate that mages who study restoration are hard to come by," the snow colored Khajiit responds, completely refuting my thought of her being mute. It was plausible; she said _nothing_ from Skyrim all the way here to Bruma.

"The chapel does not offer any healing services?" I ask, causing them to turn their head towards me.

"Decimating the Chapel of Talos some moons back had a very unfortunate affect on any devout worshipers of the Eight Divines. The stories of the massacre still lingers and many claim that the spirits haunt the chapel that was built to stand over the old one."

"Worshippers of The Nine Divines is what you meant, right? It seems only justified that they would continue to plague that very Chapel despite time passing by. The Aldmeri Dominion and all their magic cannot contain the echoes of long scorned hearts," all of them pause for a moment, eyes towards me, eyes that are hinting that I said the wrong thing. And for the sake of where we are and what happened between the Empire and the Aldmeri Dominion—yes it was the wrong thing to say. The two Khajiits that I do not know could very well be heavy supporters of the Thalmor. Though what connections would they have with Ahkari's Caravan?

"Did not think you had reverence for the _that_ person, Onyx."

"Being what I am, Kharjo, I have to have _some_ of it," and within the cat faces, it is still far too easy to distinguish the angst. Clearing my throat, I decide to make the situation a bit lighter. "Do not fret. I will not speak any louder than whispers. After all, the louder I utter my words, the more bodies hit the ground." I thought it was amusing but they certainly did not. Kharjo is shaking his head insinuating that I stop while I am ahead and Ahkari has a burning glare directed right at me. Well things certainly turned out for the worse. I try one more time to break the awful moment. "Last time I was in Bruma, I could not help but visit the shop for potions. I suppose that will help for rejuvenation. I have some gold. Would anyone care to attend to this errand?"

Luckily that eased the situation a bit. Dropping the mood of what my opinion roused up, Ahkari turns to the only other female Khajiit aside from Zaynabi. "Bhiisi."

"Yes?" I am no longer entitled to call her the mute one; the snow furred Khajiit has a name now and she responds quickly.

"Would you attend to the task?"

"This one will."

Bhiisi stares at me for a moment before taking the pouch of gold from my hand. She seems a bit shocked that I would offer such a large sum but she quickly goes off, taking the next stairs to accomplish the task. There is an unspoken look of gratitude from Ranar, looking over the best he can as he is still relying the others' weight to stand, and as for the other four, they know that gold would hardly be something I would be short of. After a quick nod from me, we make our way, maneuvering slowly through the walkways between the houses, evading the residents that are slowly getting into their morning routine. Guards give us a firm look but do nothing—some may have recognized my signature 'ebony' look, but none so much try to say anything. Eventually we find ourselves heading towards a smaller house close to the southern walls of Bruma; from the poorly made sign on top of the structure, I can only surmise that this is a general shop of some sort. Odd that this would be our destination.

"Kharjo can assure you that there is no need to worry," I was about to whisper until Kharjo spoke. "Swords and Dragon voices do not have a place here."

I give him and Ahkari a questioning look and they respond with a bit of an eerie expression before the Ohmes-Raht opens the door and walks inside. The others follow soon after, leaving me still a bit lost. The part of me still feels that there is something amiss, but the part of me that believes in my brotherhood with Kharjo seems to want to let my guard down. Hand still close to my blade, I take a deep breath and enter, anticipating anything but hoping for nothing…

"By the Twin Moons!" we are quickly greeted by a woman who sits up in her chair at the sight of us. At first glance, the woman running forward with a very concerned look in her face could easily be mistaken as Mer—Bosmer or Breton to be exact. But the eyes always distinguish things for me. No fur, no tail, pointy ears but bearing the feline eyes, she is definitely an Ohmes. "Quick! This way." She scurries to clear the way for Kharjo, Dro'marash, and Ranar.

"Bhiisi will be in shortly with items to aid Ranar's injuries."

The Ohmes nods at Ahkari in relief before leading Kharjo and Dro'marash towards the nearest cot on the ground. Ahkari and Zaynabi trade a few words, ones that I do not perceive as anything important—just some mere details about what wares should be grabbed right away from the caravan outside the city walls. In the few moments where I am beside myself, I keep myself busy, studying the close quarters, peeking behind the every corner, ensuring that there will be no surprise of any sort. Quaint and compact, this would not be an ideal place to maneuver; as it is, this is not the safest area of Bruma. Being away from the residential area and even farther from the market district, there are many dangerous things that happen in this area and I am almost certain I saw someone from the Thieves Guild. Not exactly a notable area, suffice to say. Again it raises the question as to why exactly are we here?

"Onyx," I turn to Ahkari as she calls my name with such a solemn tone.

"Telling me now would not have any consequences, Ahkari. Let us be on with it. The mystery is somewhat chilling," I meant no harm with the words but I wanted to make it known some kind of knowledge as to _what I am doing here_ —here in a run down shack, the only Mer surrounded by Khajiit, and an ambiance so depressing that I can feel the air pressing down on me as if it has physical weight.

"Ko'aji, is he awake?"

Ahkari turns her attention towards the Khajiit named Ko'aji, who is still attending to Ranar, making him as comfortable as possible until healing items arrive. After giving the injured warrior a silent gratitude, Ko'aji stands up and turns her attention to Ahkari before staring at me. With her facial features being mostly Mer-like and less cat, it is quite easy to spot the grief eating up Ko'aji. Even responding to Ahkari with a nod is a difficult task, which truly does piques my curiosity as to what is going on.

"No words can express how much it means for you to come, Dragonborn," wiping the tears streaming from her eyes, Ko'aji looks up at me, trying fervently to compose herself. "I can only hope that my gratitude would be enough for now."

At first I was not sure how to respond. I merely stare at her… those hazel eyes of hers drowning within the gathering of her own tears. Smiling softly within my helmet, I speak. "I am here to aid you in whatever way I can."

"And that is all that we would ask of you, Dragonborn. I do hope that it has not taken you away from anything that requires your immediate attention…" well, truth to be told, the Night Mother was trying to speak to me some few hours ago, but this seems more _dire_. "… but this would mean the world to Ma'Roken."

Judging from those words and the heavy tone, I am more than positive that whatever the Night Mother has to say is not even close to the importance of this. No longer able to say anything else, Ko'aji starts walking towards the stairs leading to another level down below. Ahkari follows soon after. I glance at Kharjo for a moment who now took the liberty of sliding his helmet off. The look in his face reflects everyone else's as well. Hard to see Kharjo without his usual tendency. Dro'marash and Zaynabi are also a bit too quiet for the norm; they themselves have started settling in the little room that is allowed of us from this confining place. After he takes both his gauntlets off, Dro'marash leans on the wall, letting out a heavy breath, causing Zaynabi to stay close to him, allowing the grey furred warrior to lean on her. Holding my Masque under my arm, I decide to follow Ahkari and Ko'aji, each step slow and clinging on to the tendency of stealth despite me not trying. When we reach the last step, I walk into an open space room—spacious for the fact that there isn't as much clutter as there are upstairs. This is obviously the private quarters, obvious by the way things are arranged. To my right, a small space being shared by a small dining table and the cooking area. Not too far away, a poorly maintained alchemy table standing next to a depleted shelf for what I assume would be where the ingredients would be… books scattered on the table and on the ground as if the alchemist was frantic and frustrated. As I let my eyes go farther, I catch a sight of a bed at the other side of the small room; in it is a Bosmer sitting down, his eyes towards a small figure lying down on the bed.

"Pa!" the young Khajiit lying down makes a desperate attempt to sit up as his eyes catches the sight of me.

"Please don't move too much, son," the Bosmer takes it upon himself to remind his son to remain where he is.

"But Papa! Mama and Ahkari brought him!" his cat ears twitch with excitement but his voice carries the message of a strained and obviously sick young cub. "It's him!" he lets out a sharp cough right after his words.

Those hazel eyes shining brightly as the young Khajiit can barely believe I am standing a few feet away from him. Somehow I find myself staring at him, giving him a feint smile—the better part of me understands the situation.

"My strong child," Ko'aji sits on the bed herself, close to the Bosmer, "I can't take credit since it was Ahkari who found and brought the Dragonborn for you."

"Onyx, I would like you to meet Ma'Roken," somehow failing with introductions myself, Ahkari does the honors and leads me to the bed-ridden young Khajiit. "One of his biggest dream is to _meet_ and _talk_ to the Hero of Tamriel before he goes to sleep."

 **To Be Continued.**


	2. Ma'Roken II

Khajiits hardly or never resemble their parents that much is obvious. The same goes for Ma'Roken. Having parents of both Bosmer and Khajiit, it is hard to trace the features of both his parents on him. His mother is an Ohmes; hardly recognizable as a Khajiit. The pale skin makes her resemble an Altmer but the height can make one believe that she is of Breton blood. That same pale skin is contrasted by her long black hair, which she styles as if she is mer with the fancy bun and braided bangs going off the side of her face. She also uses no tattoos to distinguish herself as a Khajiit like Ahkari does—but she has those feline eyes that give her race away. The Bosmer whom Ma'Roken called his father definitely shows no resemblance to the young Khajiit. He has a stature of a warrior, built like one, and scars that are obvious in both his arms and his chest. He has some tattoos; the strange arrow like symbol on his left forearm must insinuate his forte in the battlefield. His dark skin makes the artistic markings harder to see, but the contrast of his dirty blonde hair makes him a rather odd looking one. Luckily he does not have long hair; the military shave definitely fits his physique and haggard face.

"Ma'Roken, would you like to have a few moments with the Dragonborn?"

Ma'Roken's eyes lit up, staring at his father and mother before gazing at me as if he is seeing one of the Divines come to life. "If that would be okay for the Dragonborn," he replies, again the voice strained by his condition.

My eyes bounce between the young Khajiit and his parents before going towards Ahkari who is begging me silently to comply. I could admonish her—as if I was going to refuse this. Then again, judging from what I have said about children, I am more than aware that she is slightly afraid that I would say no to such a small but a very monumental 'favor'.

"We can drop calling me by my formal title, Ma'Roken," I respond, trying to be as soft I can with my tone, "you may call me Onyx and it is more than alright for me to stay."

Again those eyes of his light up like the twin moons themselves against the black backdrop of the night. His parents give a soft but very appreciative smile before the two of them give their son a kiss on the head. I could have sworn I saw Ahkari's eyes fill with tears, but a Khajiit like her hardly shows that side. Still, she grabs my hand and squeezes them, giving her gratitude that way. After a few somber foot steps, Ma'Roken and I are alone and I find it hard to do anything but pull the closest chair to me and sit. I place my Masque on the nearest side table, fully aware that Ma'Roken has not taken his eyes off of me once.

"This is the greatest gift ever!" he says exuberantly, breaking the silence.

"Oh? Why would you say that?"

"Why would it not be? You are the one who slayed the black Dragon-!" Ma'Roken coughed at the end of his sentence, again straining himself, forcing him to settle down on the bed.

"Well, there is no need for you to get overly worked. I am here and I do not want my presence to cause any discomfort," and there I am, trying to be a source of comfort. I really am awkward with children—not exactly fit for any kind of parental role model. I will be more than happy to save them, but to nurture them in any kind is beyond my skill.

"There is no discomfort at all! It has always been my dream to meet you!"

Beyond my skill to take care of them might be, but even I cannot help but admit that Ma'Roken is… adorable. Most Khajiits I have met resemble mountain lions and sabercats—they retain the feral appearance of their distant kin. The many different fur colors and patterns I have seen also insinuate hostility or at the very least adulthood; they fit right in within the harsher environment that Tamriel provides, whether it be the slums of the Imperial City, or the run down random houses found in Skyrim's wilderness. Ma'Roken is different, to say the least. While I have not met an Alfiq in my lifetime (at least not yet), I would imagine that Ma'Roken greatly resembles how they would look like. He has innocence in his appearance that contrasts the world he is living in. The orange fur is not something uncommon in Khajiit color, but the brightness of it, and the way his stripes are patterned does seem a bit… innocent. I would say he even has tints of white between some of his stripes, peppering the dark lines all over him; I would assume that pattern continues all over his body, though most of his lower half is covered by the tattered green blanket.

"So, you have known Ahkari for a while?"

Coughing, Ma'Roken responds. The patterns above his eyes that are acting like his eyebrows, rising up and down as he speaks. "Since I was a cub. She used to stay with us until she went off in Skyrim to do things. I was mad at first since I barely saw her, but after finding out that she met you, then I was happy because she was happy! It is like those stories Ma and Pa used to read to me when I was young about those Imperial princess story things."

I fight every urge not to let out an awkward sound. "So… what did Ahkari say about me again?"

"She talked about you like you were one of those royal knights with honor. You rode to battle, saving people from dragons and you held your sword of light proudly!"

"Sword of light?"

"Ahkari talked about how you took out your sword of light and took down an army of undead!"

Ma'Roken continued to detail the event that was, for all intent and purposes, a child's interpretation of what might have been the time I was travelling with Ahkari's Caravan and we encountered a horde of undead that were conjured up by Cyrodiil mages. It was not an army, but it was a decent number. I am almost certain that it was not Ahkari's telling of the tale that embellished it, but most likely how a child truly takes in a _simple_ story that involves me (good or bad). Quickly peeling myself away from reminiscing, I focus back on Ma'Roken as he stops speaking abruptly; a thick and hoarse few coughs escapes his mouth causing his long whiskers to twitch.

"Perhaps you should take it easy on telling my tales, Ma'Roken. Rest assured that it is…" I pause to rethink my words. While I do not consider every skirmish to be a great story, to a child who has… not very long to live, I am sure the stories he heard are legends. And to have the main 'hero' of the tale sitting next to him must be another level "… not at all as easy at it sounded," I finally finished.

"Oh I am sure! Heroes don't always have it easy that much I know. Good thing you have your sword of light, huh?"

The sword of light as Ma'Roken describes it must be none other than Dawnbreaker. After receiving it from Meridia, I often found myself summoning it—strange as I often found myself wandering into ancient Nordic burial grounds. That and so many rely on reanimating the dead. "Yes, that's correct. The sword of light is a valuable weapon."

"Dragon—um, Onyx?"

"Yes?"

Ma'Roken takes a moment to glance downwards as he pauses momentarily. "Is there a way I can see… your sword?"

I cannot help but smile as the young Khajiit's demeanor completely changes, as if the request itself was something that would cause me a whole lot of my time. I take a moment to once again absorb the adorable child who is waiting for me to decline his request. Hearts would be broken if I abided by that notion. Slowly, I stand up and take a few steps back before summoning the 'sword of light'. When it finally takes its physical form, I hold it in my hand, enjoying the awestruck expression etched on Ma'Roken's face.

"It's… it's… so bright," and his statement concurs with the glow that Dawnbreaker is letting out. The lighter shade of his orange fur gives a radiant illusion as it is touched by the blade's light. "It's as amazing as I was told."

With a smile, I sit myself down as I hover the glowing blade towards Ma'Roken. With eyes wide, he stares at me with disbelief. "Surely you wanted more than just to hear stories about it. You _do_ want to hold it, correct?"

There is something strange about seeing Ma'Roken's reactions. Pure innocence I have seen before, but this kind of jubilation—this kind of appreciation just from the mere sight of my existence is something new. I have seen ogling and the want to be my side to learn about the way I wield my blade, but this… this is _new._ And I appreciate it far more than I would have ever thought I would.

"Y-you would let me?"

I confirm with a nod before offering the blade again and with shaking hands, Ma'Roken reaches for the hilt. While it brings me great joy to see him so happy, I also come to the realization of just how dire the situation is when he grips the blade. A grip so weak that his fingers can barely wrap around the hilt. I try my best not to exude any of that gloom; instead I continue to hold the blade for him, allowing him to feel a small fraction of how it is to hold 'the sword of light'.

"Wait until I tell my brothers!"

His other hand reaches for Dawnbreaker and by now I have eased my hand on the blade itself so that Ma'Roken would be able to get his grip. Again his smile grows wider and his eyes grow bigger despite the light shining in front of him. It is certainly amazing that something like this artifact could allow such emotions; I have always considered the blade as a means to an end—and while the aesthetics are something I can nod at, the blade itself holds no significance or sentiment to me. Yes I spoke to a Daedric Prince and killed a necromancer to retrieve it, but it does not hold the same weight as Muramasa. It is an enchanted blade and it does its job well but I would never have thought that someone would see it as a symbol for me. Never thought someone would actually consider me as someone who would hold something named 'sword of light'. Even as the weight seems to take its toll on him, Ma'Roken continues to try and keep his grip. I have slowly eased Dawnbreaker so that the bed itself would be supporting most of its weight. Though with the furrowed brows, I can tell that Ma'Roken is getting discouraged that he is losing more of his strength.

"You can also tell your Mother, Father, and Brothers about the evil the sword of light helped eradicate from Nirn," I tell him, trying to encourage him, and thank the Divines it worked.

"I would love that, Onyx," he replies with that renewed energy. His ears twitch with excitement, causing the fur on the tips of his pointy ears to dance with the movement.

Letting the blade rest on the bed with Ma'Roken's hand draped on top of the hilt, I recall the times I have considered Dawnbreaker to be in the pinnacle of its worth. Never would I have fathomed that I would be considering some of my random encounters with draugrs and vampires be a worthy story to be told. Usually I just consider them as 'just another day' memories, but Ma'Roken has a different point of view. To Ma'Roken, the memories I am conveying, the story he has hears about my endeavors… to him, they are more than simple stories. They are an inspiration. The expressions he is giving out, the questions he asks, and the glee make these stories real as if he was in there. The strange thing about this is that they even become a meaningful point in my life as I recall them for him. Perhaps those times were not just for the sake of decimating, killing, and plundering. Perhaps those times do mean something. Although I am careful on what memory I should share; in fact, none of the stories I am retelling are about my tasks to acquire a Daedric Artifact, no mention of the Brotherhood, nothing about senseless killing for the sake of a means… everything Ma'Roken heard from me were the times I had to fight to protect, to survive, and down to the event of Alduin. They were the stories of a hero who was doing what he does best and also becoming the slayer of the evil incarnate, which in this case, Alduin. It puts the Elder Dragon as an avatar of evil and not just an ambiguous idea of fulfilling a prophecy told some time ago. Ma'Roken's interpretation of Alduin makes things easier: he was not a force of nature but the black wings that would carry all life to its end.

The peculiar thing is that… it seemed right. Maybe not idea of simplifying the Elder Dragon as a tangible idea of evil, but the security it gives this young Khajiit.

It is right to make it that simple, is it not?

"Onyx?" I hear Ahkari's voice and it breaks me out of my reverie. Strangely enough, I see Ma'Roken's tired eyes trying to remain open.

"Yes?" I smile at Ma'Roken as I respond to Ahkari.

"Will you give Ma'Roken a moment with his parents?"

"No. Can he please stay?"

I want to stay, and no, it is not because of the sad eyes that are imploring me to remain seated. No, it is something else. Patting Ma'Roken's hand, I carefully close his fingers around the hilt of Dawnbreaker once more. "The sword of light can remain with you for now," and those words brought that smile back, which makes it easier for me to comply with his parents' request. I walk pass them and I nod. They reciprocate the gesture despite the grieving expressions that are all too prominent in their faces. They have a reason to be as much as that justification dejects me. I have seen too many faces close to death. It is truly a shame that Ma'Roken is one of those familiar faces.

* * *

I hardly sleep. I hardly close my eyes because when I do, I see her and hear her. I suppose this is the meaning of being the Listener: a constant barrage of murders to be committed or to delegate. _Not exactly fitting for what I am doing right now_. Opening the door to Bruma's bar, I am immediately greeted by a handful of eyes gawking at me. Wary of my presence, some keep their staring far too long for my taste but eventually as I take my first steps in, some decide to go back to their business. Though the guards who are drinking their night away in the corner seem to keep their awareness towards me. I had avoided wearing full armor tonight for the sake of trying not to draw too much attention to myself. But my blade and the trinkets that connect some artifacts to me are of course in my possession. Cyrodiil is still a volatile place for me to be in. The suspicious eyes are a testament to that.

"Here," I instinctively lock on Kharjo's voice as he waves his hand in the air. Of course he chose to sit closest to the bar. Kharjo was always the type to make sure that the bartender would be a simple call away. Always wishful thinking on his part to have a bartender that is to his liking; an attractive woman who gives him mead is someone Kharjo would enjoy very much. Keeping my hand on the hilt of Muramasa, I start walking towards Kharjo's location, shimmying my way through the cluttered tables and chairs that are mostly occupied. A terrible place for peace but the location is an ideal place to have a bar fight. "It has been a while since," Kharjo tells me as I take a moment to wipe the stool that is half covered by spilled mead. The red sleeve of my shirt quickly darkens as it absorbs the liquid. Luckily some of the wetness dropped on the wooden floor that is already covered with grime from the outside.

"You should have told me," I say abruptly right after I sit. "Why did you not trust me enough to tell me the reason for this endeavor?"

If it was a normal situation, Kharjo would have retorted with some kind of sarcasm. But tonight was not time for such. "It was never the issue of trust, Dragonborn. Both Secunda and Masser knows that you are my _kin_ , my shield, and I am indebted to you. This one _trusts_ you with his life."

I take a moment to eye the bar tender as he pushes the fancy mug of silver towards me. Cyrodiil and their aesthetics always makes me laugh. Does one really have to add nonsensical jewelry to something as simple as a drinking tool? Leaving after a gesture from Kharjo, the bartender attends to his other customers after leaving silver jug that matches the cups we are drinking from. Though not being vocal about it, I can tell Kharjo is slightly disappointed that our host for this bar is not a Khajiit of his preference or a Altmer woman with long gold hair and lips that are pink and succulent. Instead we get a full-grown Imperial who can almost pass for having fur that is obvious through his arms and his open chest shirt. Definitely not Kharjo's taste.

"I wish you would have told me about Ma'Roken sooner," I finally say as I take my first gulp of my drink. Too bold of a sweet taste compared to the usual strong flavor of Nord mead.

"Children never suited your lifestyle. Was afraid you would have said no."

Well, that is a bad image. "I truly give off that impression?"

"Somewhat. But it was truly hard to find it in me to tell you with how seldom we have crossed paths lately, Onyx."

Unsure of what it is I would say that is appropriate, I take the next few moments to indulge with every sip, thinking back on the stories I told Ma'Roken. The faces he made, the happiness those tales brought him, and the fact that a young boy such as he would be suffering because …. Finishing my first cup, I pour another one for myself and for Kharjo as well.

"Zaynabi will finish the potion tomorrow."

"There is no need to use words of illusion, friend. I realize the gamut of this," with a heavy sigh after my words, Kharjo finishes his drink in one tilt of his cup before pouring himself another. I follow suit, finishing my second cup, hardly enjoying the too overly flavored drink.

"I have known the child since he was a fresh born cub. I played with him. We spoke of tales of him becoming the Mane one day. Ahkari and I visited him often, bringing him gifts from our travels. Zaynabi would always make him the sweetest drinks that would resemble the ones she used to drink when she lived in Elsweyr and Ma'Roken loved it. Dro'marash would tease him of how small he was and the cub would often try to take his father's weapon and challenge the Cathay. Ma'Roken does not even fear Ranar… jokingly, Ranar pretends that Ma'Roken is indeed a mane and would shout 'S'rendarr's mercy' just to give the cub the confidence he needs after Dro'marash's teasing," Kharjo takes a long pause after speaking. I give him those moments as I wait to hear more of what he is saying. "I remember all the talks we had about seeing his brothers again and visiting Elsweyr. Ko'aji would teach the cub how to cook and often bragged that her son would one day cook for the family while he wields a bow and arrow. Gwil was always not happy with that and would try and boast that his son would be too busy wielding a sword and bow on both hands to learn how to cook…." He stops again and this time it was not because he was going to take a drink. Taking a few moments to compose himself, Kharjo stares at me; eyes stern and watery. "No, my friend. My purpose is not to cast illusion with words. This one is trying his best not to say that Zaynabi will have the poison ready by the morning. Not even an Orsimer would want to know that he is about to see the youngest of his tribe die because living every moment means to suffer."

Despite all of his sarcasm, his unorthodox ways he deals with verbal confrontation, how often he is a nuisance with his not-so-straight-forward way of answering… with all his false incompetence he lets on, Kharjo is a warrior and a fine one at that. He is assertive, resilient, versatile (though he is terrible at magic; Dro'marash and Ahkari make up for it), and he has survived the outdoors of his travels and he was my shield on more than one occasion. Kharjo is a killer that much is certain, so to witness him in such an emotional state makes anyone grasp the picture that Ma'Roken's situation is hitting close to the heart. No amount of Dragobone, Dwemer, or even Ebony armor can protect one from that kind of pain. And when this night ends and the morning comes, the only remedy for the young Khajiit's waning life will come. Pouring Kharjo and myself a cup, I offer him a toast and without words spoken, we do so. It has been a while since we drank together. Unfortunately it has to be in this circumstance.

"Thank you for coming," he tells me after a long moment of silence between us.

"It is an honor to be here."

I tried to drown myself with the background noise the bar provided. Unfortunately, for the rest of the night all I can hear are Ma'Roken's words of excitement. With all the magic, the miracles, and the possibilities in Tamriel… nothing can save the young Khajiit's life. Nothing can alter his rare condition. Tonight is his last night and no words can describe just how tragic that fact is.

* * *

"I am sorry," the first words uttered by anyone that undoubtedly catches everyone's attention.

"What are you apologizing for, son?" Gwil asked despondently.

Ko'aji is right beside the Bosmer as they both wait for their son's response. Truth to be told, I am also waiting to hear what Ma'Roken is apologizing for.

"I was… supposed to… travel the world…" his body is even weaker today. While his fur remains as vibrant as they were yesterday, the toll of his condition is far too cruel as it has taken much out of him. His face gaunt and his eyes straining to remain open; truly a dejecting sight.

"My strong child, please do not speak," his mother speaks with courage despite the sadness quite obvious and is pouring out of her in every way possible. "Rest yourself."

I glance momentarily at Kharjo who is one of the closest ones to Ma'Roken's side. Ahkari, Kharjo, Dro'marash, and Ranar (whose large stature is taking up a large amount of space in the confined area) surround the bed that Ma'Roken is lying down on while Gwilhelas and Ko'aji are sitting by the young Khajiit's side, each holding one of his hands for support. I stand some distance away along with the white furred Bhiisi, which draws a pretty clear picture on her rapport with this group; she gives me the impression that while she is close to Ranar, she is a new face to the others, which means she is not exactly close to Ma'Roken. Despite that, the sadness in her blue eyes is quite easy to decipher.

"… I wanted… to be a … hero…"

Those words were enough to evoke more tears out of his parents and soon, Ahkari joins them. Ranar, despite the pain of his injury is the next one who isn't able to contain his grief, and soon the others join.

"You are, my son," Ko'aji tries to form those words as eloquently as she can between her sobbing, "… you are _our_ hero… my strong son…"

I can see the smile in Ma'Roken's face—a forced but meaningful, innocent smile. Aside from the fact that his condition has taken away much of his strength, it is also making every moment difficult. But of course a young child who grasps the idea of dying would do anything to make every passing moment count. And so time goes on and the air of sadness grows thicker and thicker. The sounds of sobbing got louder and there are moments when Ko'aji's and Gwilhelas' crying became uncontrollable. I stand here, motionless, and trying to remain as emotionless. Part of me wishes I kept my Masque on but it would have not been adequate or respectful. But I dare not let my eyes linger too long towards Ma'Roken or Ahkari or even Kharjo for that matter. I cannot remember the last time I shed tears for sadness… and I definitely cannot allow myself to shed them now. I have grown accustomed to seeing tragic and unfitting deaths, which is what makes the task somewhat bearable… but the child sees me as a strong hero (quite the opposite of what I am), and he needs at least one strong figure to keep the last of his strength. He needs not suffer more through the disdain of seeing his 'legend' share the grief that everyone is going through.

Then the moment comes and many of the Khajiit ears flinch towards the sound of the door opening and closing. As the familiar figure of Zaynabi descends down the stairs, the air of grief grew even heavier and I almost find it too arduous of a task to hold my emotions in.

"Zaynabi... I'm so happy to see you…" Ma'Roken can comprehend the situation. He knows what the red bottle in Zaynabi's hand contains, though he chooses not to see one of the people who he looks up to as someone who carries the 'remedy' for his condition. Instead he remains as he is. Despite having known him for less than a day, I have gathered that this little boy was as bright and cheerful as the 'sword of light' he so admires.

"This one is sorry," Zaynabi says shortly after smiling at Ma'Roken. Obviously feeling the weight of what she holds, she can barely manage the said smile as she greets the young Khajiit. Her face is even more disparaging as she faces the entire family; I can see her sadness so clearly, especially when she walks pass me. The darker wet areas of her fur that surround her eyes implies just how much tears she has let out.

"There is no need for apology, Zaynabi," Dro'marash speaks, uttering the words that I am more than sure Ma'Roken's parents are trying to say but can't, "we all know that this is not easy for you as well."

The moment Zaynabi is in range, she carefully wraps her arms around Ma'Roken, which results to her adding to the melancholy sound of crying. Eventually the group compose themselves to the best of their ability. The red bottle is now on Gwilhelas' hand and he trembles as he starts to offer it to Ma'Roken.

"My son," the Bosmer speaks with a broken tone, "we will always be with you… until…"

He tries to finish, but he cannot. "… Until the end," and Ko'aji finishes the sentence that no parent should ever say to their child.

"I… know… please… tell my brothers…" Ma'Roken coughs again. Every word is painful, that much is obvious.

"We will."

Looking pass his parents after Ko'aji comforts him, the young Khajiit finds it in him to acknowledge me; and while the exuberance for seeing me is marred by his failing condition, he does not fall short on conveying just how appreciative he is for me being here in his last moments.

"I will shout to the sky," I speak, voice low and trying fervently to remain the strong 'legendary hero' that the young boy sees me as, "and all the Divines will know. The Dragons will know. The tale of the brave Mane with armor shining like the dawn will live on. In his hands, the sword of light has never shone so brightly as he reminds those who would tarnish life that good will always prevail. And in my honor, I will always remember you, Ma'Roken."

I meant the words despite them sounding as another clichéd speech meant to bolster one's pride. In this situation, it is something that needs to be heard. Ma'Roken heard them and within that suffering, he smiles. To see such a life, struggling with every breath but taking my words as the grace of the twin moons… it is most definitely a moment where all the blight of the world simply vanished even for a moment. I am no Dragonborn, not a warrior, nor an assassin… I am just another soul witnessing a life so precious getting closer to his final breath. And as he finally takes the bottle in his hands, time slows down as he eases it towards his lips.

" _Laas_ ," I whisper and I see Ma'Roken's aura, bright and glowing far brighter than the others'. Though as the content of the red bottle starts to take hold, it flickers—a sign that his remedy has come.

"… thank you…"

Ma'Roken said those two words in appreciation to his parents who are at his side and to his extended family who are here: Ahkari, Kharjo, Ranar, Dro'marash, and Zaynabi. Those words are even meant for Bhiisi who is showing her respect. Lastly, the gratitude is for me who the young Khajiit sees as a hero despite me being far from it. A hero saves lives. A hero … saves a life. Seems to me that I failed his. Despite all my power and everything I have accomplished, I cannot save him, and for that I doubly detest the idea of being called anything that is remotely close to a 'hero'. Especially when the testament of my shortcoming is so obvious…His aura was so bright… it glowed brighter than the others'… it _was_ full of life…

But now it is no more. "I am sorry."

As if I used my Thu'um, right after those three words the entire room fell in the burden of anguish. I watch as Ma'Roken's lifeless body is wrapped within the embrace of his grieving parents. Both clutching the young Khajiit as they cry, trying to form words as they get buried in their loss. Ahkari finds what comfort she can within Kharjo's support. She buries her head in Kharjo's chest as he tries to offer what solace he can as he shares the despair. Bhiisi eventually finds herself by Ranar's side, supporting him in any way she can, leaving me standing outside the circle. But that does not abate the sadness for me; I may not have known Ma'Roken, watched him grow, or stood by his side as he learned the things he did in his few years of living… I may not be the _true_ hero he heard in the tales that were told but I am a man who feels the loss of someone who did not deserve to be taken away so soon. The things I would give up to be able to alleviate some of the pain, to offer a shoulder to the parents whom I cannot even fathom just how devastated they are from here on out. The things I would do to be able to allow Ahkari to shed her tears in my embrace or offer Kharjo a quip or two to help him laugh again… but this situation is not for me to heal. Only Akatosh's offer of time can even propose some restoration. Sliding the Masque over my face, I give the grievers one last glance before turning around and making my way up. As I exit the small house, Bruma's population greets me as the city goes about its business, unaware of the terrible tragedy that is occurring beneath them within this quaint little household. I have the urge to shout from the top of my lungs, plunge my blade to the next pompous mug I come across… somewhere deep inside I want to release the rage, the sadness, and every single emotion I can so that the sky would turn black and it would rain. I want everyone to feel my angst. I want them to know that someone so innocent just died.

But that is not what Ma'Roken would want. And deep down inside that is not what I want. Deciding that it is best to isolate myself from this scene, I make my way out of the city gates and into the back of Shadowmane. From there I ride… _fast_. Heading nowhere in particular and wanting no outcome for this moment. If I stop any time soon, I believe I will succumb to my grief…

And that _I cannot allow_.

 **To Be Concluded.**


	3. Chapter 3

I try my best not to get distracted by the sight of the apple pie that always seem to be on the table. It makes me wonder if Tilma makes an effort to bake a fresh one every morning and it sits on Kodlak's table for the whole day. Late afternoon and it is still on the table, untouched.

"Do you still grieve?" I make an effort to give the Harbinger my attention before turning to look at Muramasa as it sits on the other side of the room. Grieve… I feel the red blade let out a feint glow as if it wants more bloodshed. It has been some time since I have allowed it to feed. "I have sought the wrong answer. Perhaps I should ask you a different question, son."

"You can ask me any way you want, Kodlak, and I will answer in the best of my ability," I glance at the tankard in my hand, swishing the mead in it, trying to find the mood to drink.

"Your blade and your helmet are not in arm's range. If this visit would last over night, I would also assume that you would lay your armor to rest as well."

I stare at Kodlak with a look I am sure he has often received from me (and the rest of his Companions). Speaking in riddles is sometimes what Kodlak is accused of doing and at times it sure feels as if he only speaks in that manner. Regardless, it is best if I decide to give an answer. "This is one of the rare places I can do that, Kodlak. I hope it never gets to a point where I have to keep my guard up in Jorrvaskr."

He settles in his chair, staring at me with a look that implies some kind of satisfaction from the words that came out of my mouth. The light that the candles are offering in his private room defines the smile even more; a gentle smile that I often find unfitting for him. Kodlak definitely has had his fair share of hardships and his face shows the years of constant fighting. While Kodlak is wise and understanding, I still cannot accept the fact that he is capable of such a smile. I'm not saying that he does not deserve to feel happiness; it's just that it is an odd expression to fit him.

"After deterring the carnage the World Eater was trying to inflict, you come back to the living and find that you could not save everyone and for that you feel a lack of victory," I may only see Kodlak once every month, if even, but he does have a way to look into someone and decipher their feelings. As amazing of a feat that is for me, I still do not find it comforting at this moment, but I know he has a reason for it. He always does.

"That little boy did not deserve to die so young."

"Indeed. Ma'Roken nor his family did not deserve to feel such pain, but I am afraid that it is the way the world works some times."

I sigh and finally force myself to take a gulp of my drink. Definitely not Cyrodiil fruit drinks that I have been used to for the past days. While I sit there and half contemplate on the flavor of the drink, I think about Ma'Roken again, about the cremation and the words of gratitude I was given. I wish the gratitude held more joy and not an appreciation for me attending the little Khajiit's funeral. It is the way of the world, yes, but I for one do not gladly accept it; especially when I seem to have the power to prevent most things.

"You said his father offered payment?"

As Kodlak said those words, I instantly remember the moment where Gwil tried to hand me a pouch of coin. We were all staring into the night as the fire that cremated Ma'Roken's body flickered into the black sky. I remember that I was staring off into the distant sky, making sense of the twin moons, thinking of the young boy that we were paying homage to. I knew Gwil was behind me.

 _'Please, it is all we have left,'_ he told me with sorrow laced in every word he spoke. _'We would give more, but we used the majority of what we earned to purchase Zaynabi's ingredients. I am truly sorry we cannot…'_

I did not let him finish, instead I closed his hand and made sure that pouch disappeared behind his fist. _'There is no need for that. It is I who must apologize that I could not have done more.'_

I figured words would just add to the grief so I made an attempt to walk away but the grieving father said something I cannot get out of my head. _'You really are a hero. Seeing you at least once in his lifetime gave Ma'Roken happiness that I'm sure he took with him_. _'_

My back was turned to him by then and I wanted to turn around and face him with all the emotions that are prominent in my face, but I abstained from doing so. _'I may be a hero in his eyes but I am not HIS hero, Gwilhelas. I am but a mere avatar of legends. You, Ko'aji, Ahkari, Kharjo… all of you. You are all his heroes. Family and all the care they offer is the true hero in any era. He is sleeping happily because despite everything, he had family by his side,"_ perhaps I did not need to say those words, but I did. And I meant every word, which made me think of Selvus… and my family before him. Strange. Though I shook the reverie off and decide to reply to Kodlak.

"I refused the payment and in return, I gave them a lot of gold. I made sure Kharjo and Ahkari recruited the best allies to accompany them to Elsweyr so that Ma'Roken's family would be able to put his ashes to rest. I believe they are all on their way there as we speak."

"You feel guilty and you are grieving. It is a natural thing to feel that way for such a tragic event. But I regret to say that there is no comfort I can offer, young one. I cannot take away that pain."

The way he said those words stuck me odd. Even as Kodlak stands up, walking to the other side of the room, I contemplate on his statement, looking at him as he runs his fingers through his beard as if lost in thought.

"I did not expect miracles to happen here, Kodlak. I am merely…"

"Venting, I am aware. No blade by your side, your face exposed, and you speak with details about the one thing that is obviously taking its toll on you. You may not have expected me to posses magic to rid you of this pain, but you come to me with your guards lowered, _hoping_ I have some kind of wisdom to offer that will help you heal faster."

I stare at him, trying my best not to show the shock in my face with that bold and (I hate to admit) accurate insight. I myself may not have been fully aware of my own intent, but I suppose it is pretty obvious that every time I visit Kodlak, I listen to his words to gain some kind of wisdom… suffice it to say, the Harbinger has so much to offer in just his words alone. While he may not be at his prime when it comes to wielding his warhammer, he does have his cunning and intellectual way he uses his words.

"I suppose," is the only thing I can say in response to.

"Again, I am no miracle worker. I am just an old man with _many_ burdens of guilt of his own," he remains silent for a few moments. Again his habit of running his hands through his beard as he contemplates is the only thing I get for those few said moments. "But perhaps you would like to help me lighten the load?"

And when he finally did speak, Kodlak once again baffles me. I would say it is another one of his riddles to decipher, but that look on his face insinuates that something very stern is about to come out of this. If this were just another person, I would say I have found myself in another fool's errand. I would be sating someone's need to be saved after I mark a quest point on my imaginary map… but this is Kodlak. As a Harbinger of the Companion he would be more than qualified to request some assistance from his warriors but….

"What is it?"

"The moment we met, I knew there was something inside of you that was different from every person I have met who has had his sword bathe in enemy blood. The glory of the hunt is strong in you, but you do not hunger for it in the way that Skojr, Aela, or the Twins do. You are different and I do not say these things because you have the soul of a dragon." By now I am leaning forward, hanging on to his every word. "You still seek to undo the terrible things that you have endured, Onyx. And even though you know you cannot, you try. You _did not_ banish Alduin strictly to fulfill a prophecy or to seek the legendary title. You did it because you knew that it would allow the many to have a chance to live a life better than you have experienced. I cannot express enough how much I see that in you," I could not take my eyes off of him. How can I? "The fault is in me for not asking this of you sooner, my son."

"What is it, Kodlak?"

"The others cannot know. This is between you and I."

For a moment, Kodlak's tone and expression shifts to the stern and scolding one. I barely waited a second before nodding my head once. Immediately after my gesture, he once again returns to the somber frown. His eyes low and his face even more defined in sadness as if whatever his request is something that has been eating his soul.

"I abandoned my daughter a few years back after she failed a mission. I told everyone she died and in a way she did, but recently a courier delivered a message."

I stand up. My armor letting off a few clinking sounds from such an abrupt movement. I did not know how to respond the moment Kodlak mentioned 'daughter' and I obviously still do not know how to respond now. Instead I continue to gawk at him—waiting for his next set of words.

"I would ask something of you, Dragonborn. My daughter may be lost to me, but this grand daughter of mine deserves a world outside of my failure."

"Kodlak…."

"This old man does not deserve to see her, but she still deserves a chance," I swear I could see his eyes flicker as if tears are about to pour out. Like smiling, tears will not suit Kodlak Whitemane. "Go to Markarth, Dragonborn. Find my grand daughter, Anjiri and take her to safety. _Please_. Give her the chance that I could not provide because of my foolishness."

I look up to Kodlak for a lot of reasons and time and time again I am reminded why. Ma'Roken is lost, and that may not be my fault, but he knows that I will carry that burden for a long time…. To help heal that wound, he is offering me some kind of remedy; a remedy in the form of trust and perhaps another chance to save someone who does not deserve to suffer in this world.

 **End.**


End file.
